


Bedroom Picnics

by Crowgirl



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Summer Challenge Fic Dump [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bed Picnics, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel Smut Brigade, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fondling, M/M, Picnics, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sort-of Picnics, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Negotiations over living arrangements are best done in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedroom Picnics

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the end notes.

Dean flattens his hands on the counter to either side of the tray and makes himself take a deep breath and blow it out again: slow and quiet. Even so, he glances back over his shoulder; Castiel sleeps like a bird and Dean really doesn’t want him to wake up.

He takes a deep breath and tries like hell to remember what Jo had said the day before.

* * *

_‘He’s not gonna go for it until you ask him.’ She takes the last swig of iced tea and caps the bottle._

_‘But I have asked him.’_

_She rolls her eyes at him. ‘No, you’ve told him all the reasons it’s safer. That’s not asking him.’_

_‘But -- I --’ Dean throws his hands in the air and lets them slap back onto the arms of his chair. ‘I don’t get it. There is no good reason for him to go back to that shithole.’_

_‘I know.’_

_‘Then how the hell do I get him not to.’_

_‘Maybe ask him to stay?’_

* * *

_Okay, okay, you got this. This is fine. This is...totally fine._ Dean doesn’t even believe himself and the tray is starting to blur in front of his eyes a little so, before he can hear any more internal monologue, he grabs up the tray and elbows the kitchen door open.

* * *

For a wonder, Castiel is still asleep, curled on his side, one hand under the pillow, the other loose on his hip. Dean doesn’t let himself stand too long watching, just long enough to notice the dark shadows under Castiel’s closed eyes, heavier on the right side, and the line of bruises up the back of Castiel’s left forearm.

The bruises make Dean want to punch something and he carefully tightens his fingers on the tray. ‘Hey, Cas.’

Castiel mumbles something and noses into his pillow, pushing his free hand underneath.

Dean snorts and sets the tray down on his side of the bed. Sometimes he thinks their sides of the bed are almost cliche: the bedside tables are identical -- he bought them off his old roommate three years before -- but the only things on his are a black goose-neck lamp and his laptop. Castiel’s looks like some sort of office supply-slash-bookstore hurricane has hit it: there’s a lamp but the base is invisible under a loose, ever-changing scree of books, magazines, loose bits of paper, post-it notes, and notebooks. The debris spills over onto the floor, too, and the only reliably clear space is around the alarm clock. Castiel insists on being in charge of the alarm clock.

‘Cas.’ Dean presses the tray down a little, jiggling the bed slightly.

‘Mmm _hhhm_ fff.’

‘Sure, buddy. I made you coffee.’ Dean blows across the top of the mug, sending a waft of steam towards the huddled form.

‘...time’sit..?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nine!’ Castiel goes straight from limp to sitting with what Dean thinks is an admirable display of abdominal strength. ‘Dean!’

‘Chill -- it’s Saturday.’

‘But--’

‘And Ellen took your shift.’ Dean kneels up on the bed and holds out the mug. ‘Remember?’

‘I...oh.’ Castiel reaches out for the mug with his left hand and winces, then shifts position deliberately and takes the mug with his right.

Dean squeezes a handful of sheet so tight he can feel his nails through it and he thinks his voice sounds pretty normal as a result. ‘I made us breakfast.’ He pulls his other leg up onto the bed and sits cross-legged on his pillow, pulling the tray up between them.

Castiel has to tilt the mug at a slightly odd angle to take a drink, finding a position where his still swollen lip won’t be a problem, but he nods and, as soon as he can, says, ‘What did you make?’

Dean takes a deep breath before he can say anything with a steady voice. ‘I got you that weird cheese you like--’

‘Goat cheese is not weird.’

‘Says you. And I made batter bread and got that fancy sugar I’ve been wanting to try. And fruit and...’ Dean waves at the tray. ‘You can see it. What am I telling you for?’

‘Because I like you to tell me what you have made.’ Castiel leans against him, a nestling motion that damn near makes Dean’s heart break every time Cas does it. ‘What is so special about this sugar?’

‘It’s just -- it doesn’t melt in the oven.’ Dean taps the crusty top of the loaf. ‘See?’

‘I see.’ Castiel takes another sip of coffee and adds, ‘Are you going to tell me what the problem is now?’

Dean can’t help it: he tightens up and he knows damn well Castiel can feel it. ‘There’s no problem.’

Castiel hums noncommitally and breaks off a piece of bread crust thickly sprinkled with sugar. 

‘Hey!’ Dean picks up the short serrated knife and raps Castiel’s knuckles with it. Castiel flicks his fingertips at it dismissively and pops the chunk of bread in his mouth. 

He chews thoughtfully for a minute and then says, somewhat indistinctly, ‘I like this new sugar.’

Dean nods and picks up his own coffee cup. The silence stretches out, Castiel alternately crumbling bites of bread off the loaf and working his way down the coffee until Dean knows he’s pushed himself as far as he can go.

‘Okay, so nothing’s _wrong--’_ He hesitates.

‘But?’ Castiel prompts. Dean can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s been waiting for this. He isn’t tensing up, though; he’s still loose against Dean’s side so either he hasn’t guessed or--

‘Are you just planning out all the ways to say no?’

‘I can hardly do that until I know what you are going to say.’

‘I want you to stay.’ Dean stops, then when Cas says nothing, blunders on: ‘Here. I want you to stay here.’

Castiel cranes his head back slightly. ‘I had no intention of going out today.’ He puts his mug back on the tray and his hand slides warm up the inside of Dean’s thigh. ‘Or did you have something more definite in mind?’

‘No, I--’ Dean grabs Castiel’s hand before it can get distracting. ‘No, Cas, I mean I want you to -- to live here. With me. Here.’

‘Why?’ 

Dean blinks. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting. The honest answer is probably something like _I never want to get another phone call from the ER again in my fucking life_ or _I’m sick of walking you to your crap apartment to make sure you don’t get jumped by crackhead kids every night._ Instead of saying either of those things, he spreads his hand out underneath Castiel’s, running his thumb over Castiel’s fingers from tip to knuckle. He has Castiel’s left hand and he can see the half-healed scratches over his wrist and, if he turns Castiel’s hand palm-up, there will be the line of finger-shaped bruises up to his elbow.

‘Dean?’

‘I don’t want this to happen again.’ Dean brushes his fingers along the underside of Castiel’s forearm. He feels like he should be able to feel the bruises, like they should be hot or sharp under his fingers but all he can feel is soft skin and the scratch of hair.

‘I believe they were arrested.’

Dean grunts. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘Dean--’

This isn’t working right. Dean pushes the tray away with the side of his foot -- there’s a reason there’s nothing liquid on there -- and kneels up beside Cas. Castiel pulls back against his pillows, eyes dark, waiting. 

‘I don’t want you going home to some shithole apartment where shithole kids are going to mug you because you’re the neighborhood fag.’ Dean sees Castiel flinch and his eyes grow darker, so hurries on before he can say anything. ‘I don’t fucking _ever_ want to get another phone call from the ER saying, “Do you know a Mister Wilder? He was just brought in and your number was the first in his phone.” Jesus _fuck,_ Cas, that scared the _shit_ out of me.’

‘I did not ask--’

‘I know you didn’t -- that’s not the point!’

Castiel sets his mug down on his bedside table with a thump that sets papers sliding. ‘Then what is the point?’ He crosses his arms, tilts his head, raises his eyebrows.

‘I don’t want you going back there!’ 

‘I do not need you to take care of me!’ 

Dean sits back on his heels, blinking. ‘What?’

Castiel’s cheeks are flushed. ‘I do not need a -- a -- a _bodyguard._ You are -- you are _supposed_ to be my -- my _boyfriend,_ not my -- _protector!’_

‘What the _fuck,_ Cas!’ Dean stares at him.

‘You think I am _weak_ \-- that I _am_ the -- the -- the --’ Castiel takes a deep breath and brings the words out in a kind of defiant whoop: ‘--the _neighborhood fag_ and I cannot look after myself and--’

This has gone far enough. Dean takes advantage of the bedclothes to kneel over Castiel, effectively trapping him under the covers. He leans forward, forcing Castiel to lean back against the pillows or go nose to nose with him. Castiel doesn’t give an inch and Dean realises he should have known earlier that Castiel isn't sad about what had happened or frightened Dean was going to ask him to leave -- he's _spitting_ mad about it.

‘No, I didn’t say any of those things,’ Dean says slowly and carefully. ‘I said I would like you to move in with me because you live in a shithole apartment where asshole kids hang out and do things like beat on people who come home late at night and don’t pay attention to where they’re going.’

‘I can look after my _self,_ Dean--’

‘Yeah, I _know,_ the point is that I want to help!’ Dean only realises when he stops that he’s nearly shouting. He makes himself stop and take a deep breath, planting his hands palm down on either side of Castiel’s hips. ‘I want to help.’ 

Castiel is staring at him, eyes wide and shocked nearly black. His mouth is gaping slightly and, as soon as he realises it, he snaps it shut. 

‘Okay? Is that all right? Do you think you can live with that?’

‘I---’ Castiel closes his mouth without saying anything else and continues staring at Dean.

‘You don’t need a bodyguard -- although,’ Dean adds, ‘you could stand to learn how to throw a punch. I’ll get Sammy to teach you some weekend.’ Dean’s younger brother is something of an amateur boxer -- or was before he got too tall for the ring. ‘So...no, okay, I don’t...well, maybe I _do_ want to...protect you. A little. But, fuck, Cas, we’ve been together for a year! Can’t you be okay with that?’ 

It’s only when he stops that Dean becomes aware of an almost unbearable pressure of words in his throat: _you spend half the week here anyway, I’ve bought your last three toothbrushes, you ask me if we need milk when you leave work before I do, the pizza place down the block asks after you if I call instead of you on Sundays, when I’m getting sick you buy the kind of juice I like before I can get it--_ And then even more words behind that: _I love my windows and I love the way the light comes through them to show me your skin and every time I see those bruises I think I’m gonna cry or throw up or hit something and I don’t know which I wanna do first and I don’t fucking ever want that to happen to you again---_

‘Dean.’ Castiel’s voice has a sound as if this is not the first time he has tried to catch Dean’s attention.

Dean blinks. ‘Yeah.’

‘Do...’ Castiel pauses, catches the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth for a minute, and then goes on slowly, ‘Are you -- saying you love -- me?’

Dean stares at him. ‘What the fuck else would I be saying.’

Castiel stares back at him for a long minute and then, before Dean has a chance to think of anything else to say, he’s on his back and Castiel is above him, knees on either side of Dean’s thighs, hands bracketing his shoulders. ‘Then I say yes -- yes, I love you, too, yes, I will live with you --’ The corners of his mouth twitch up. ‘--and, yes, I will let your terrifying brother teach me how to hit.’

‘He’s not terrifying---’ Dean argues, even while thinking that this is probably not where his attention should be going given that Castiel is naked and plastered on top of him.

‘Dean. Unless Sam is smiling, he looks like the evil giant in a children’s book,’ Castiel says seriously, sitting back on his heels.

‘He does _not--’_ Dean begins before he realises. ‘Oh, ha, ha, very fucking funny. See if I clean the bathroom for you this afternoon!’ 

‘But --’ Castiel presses a hand to his jaw. ‘-- I am wounded--’

Something in Dean’s throat catches and it must show in his face because Castiel is close to him again, one hand on Dean’s cheek. ‘No, no -- don’t look like that, Dean. It was a joke -- nothing but a bad joke!’

‘I know -- I know,’ Dean manages to get out, covering Castiel’s hand with his own. ‘Just -- maybe not funny right now, okay?’

Castiel cocks his head. ‘Did you think I was seriously hurt?’

‘The fucking _triage_ nurse called me! Of course I thought you were hurt!’ Dean doesn’t feel like detailing the cold, tearing sensation in his chest he got just from walking into the ER, the way all ERs smelled the same: antiseptic and blood and fear and how some little eight-year-old version of himself is still standing shrinking in the corner of an ER back in Kansas waiting for his dad to bring his mom out from behind the curtain of that little cubicle and he never had. Instead, he’d come out red-faced and crying and covered in soot and part of Dean’s world had cracked right down the middle and never come back together.

‘Dean?’ 

Dean blinks himself back to the present. ‘Yeah, I thought you were seriously hurt. What -- you think I just come racing into the ER in my pajamas every night just for the hell of it?’

The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up. ‘You were in your pajamas?’

‘The pants, yeah.’ He’d yanked on a long-sleeved shirt and his jacket on top of them but that was as far as he’d gotten.

‘I did not notice.’

‘No, I didn’t think you did.’ 

Castiel leans back a little and Dean automatically raises one knee for him to lean against. He looks down at Dean thoughtfully for a long minute and he’s doing that frustrating thing where Dean can’t read his face. Sometime -- years from now probably and that’s assuming Cas puts up with him that long -- Dean hopes he’ll learn to break that look open. ‘What?’

Castiel shakes his head slightly. ‘Nothing. I am all right, Dean. You know this.’

‘I know -- yeah, I know _now.’_ Dean shrugs his shoulders against the bedclothes. ‘But I didn’t know _then.’_

‘I snore,’ Castiel declares abruptly.

Dean stares at him for a long minute. ‘Uh...yeah. I know.’

‘And I dislike doing laundry.’

‘I...know that, too. What is this -- your disclosure statement?’ A faint blush rises in Castiel’s face and Dean grins. ‘Really? That’s the worst you’ve got? You snore and you don’t like to do laundry?’ He runs his hands up Castiel’s thighs, fingertips stopping just below where the inseams meet. ‘What about that you’re a whore for blowjobs?’

The flush turns from faint to dark. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Or how ‘bout that thing where you bought the lube and left it on the nightstand and didn’t mention it for two months?’

‘I--’

‘Because I was somehow supposed to _intuit_ that you love being fingered. Like from the small print on the bottle or something.’

‘Oh? And what about you and foot rubs?’ Castiel shoots back. ‘The sounds you make should be illegal!’

‘Is that a problem?’ Dean mimics Castiel’s intonation and Castiel grins at him and leans further forward, sneaking his hand under Dean’s elbow and pressing his face close to Dean’s throat. When he speaks again, Dean can feel the huff of breath against his skin.

‘Or how about your throat?’

Dean feels the quick flick of a tongue and it steals whatever he might have been about to say right out of his mouth.

‘This really should come with a warning, you know--’ Castiel’s voice is muffled and Dean can feel the vibration in his throat and behind his ear but he’s too busy arching his neck so Castiel can get better access. Castiel takes the hint and licks his way along the curve of muscle, nipping lightly just below the earlobe and sucking kisses back down to the notch in Dean’s collarbone. 

‘The first time I did this,’ Castiel says, the tip of his tongue tracing along Dean’s collarbone between words, ‘I thought you were going to come on the spot.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean gasps in a deep breath and tries to stop himself rutting up against Castiel’s hips. It’s embarrassing how fast this gets him hard.

‘I thought...’ Castiel interrupts himself to lick up the other side of Dean’s neck, his fingers gently urging Dean’s head to one side, combing through his short hair and rubbing random patterns into his scalp. ‘...I thought perhaps you were faking it.’

‘Hey!’ Dean’s not so far gone that that isn’t a little insulting. 

Castiel’s hand presses soothingly against the side of his face. ‘I figured out very quickly,’ he says softly, right against Dean’s ear, ‘that you were not.’ He punctuates the sentence with a sucking pull on Dean’s earlobe and Dean gasps again.

‘Well -- well, okay -- I -- Jesus -- I guess that’s okay, then.’

Castiel continues his ministrations in thoughtful silence for a few moments, teasing his way along the back of Dean’s ear and pushing his fingertips down the back of his neck, pressing at the tight muscles where neck met shoulder. ‘I used to wait for you to come down to get your coffee in the afternoon,’ he finally says, almost conversationally. 

‘Yeah?’ Dean draws in a deep breath and slides his hands over Castiel’s hip, cupping the curve of his ass where it sits against Dean’s thighs. Castiel hums appreciatively, grinding down just a little into Dean's hands.

‘I liked it to be sunny out -- it didn’t have to be much, just so the windows by the staircase were light.’

‘What -- so you didn’t have to look me in the face?’ Dean braces one foot and rolls them both onto their sides, pressing his thumb over the front arch of Castiel’s hipbone.

Castiel _tsks_ and whaps the tip of his nose lightly then runs his fingertip over Dean’s lips, resting just for a second on the center of his lower lip. Dean crosses his eyes trying to bring the fingertip into focus and then tries to catch it with his tongue. Castiel lets him press a kiss to his knuckle. ‘So I could see you in silhouette.’

Dean shakes his head. ‘Nah, too fancy for me. I just liked it when you wore t-shirts in the summer--’ He presses his free hand over Castiel’s collarbone, pushing himself to focus on the warmth of skin, not the bruise on Cas’ left shoulder. ‘--’specially the ones that opened down to here? Those were nice.’

Castiel grins at him. ‘I still wear those, Dean -- they _were_ nice?’

‘Yeah, okay, it’s nicer now I get to take them off of you--’ Dean allows, ducking his head and running his tongue along Castiel’s collarbone, pausing to suck a dark mark over the central notch. Castiel hisses, drops his head back, and his hands tighten on Dean’s shoulders. Dean lets his hand slide down over Castiel’s ribs, fingertips tracing the gentle rise and fall of bone and muscle until Castiel hisses and twitches away from him. 

‘Fuck -- I’m sorry --’ Dean whips his hand back.

Castiel rolls his eyes and shifts position slightly so that he is lifted on his elbow. ‘It is hardly that bad.’

‘You fell on fucking _concrete--’_

‘I know what happened. You just touched the wrong place--’ Castiel catches Dean’s hand and places it firmly back on his hip. ‘There. No bruises there.’

**Author's Note:**

>  **Edit:** It is with humiliation and a plea for indulgence that I offer up this half-finished fic for the DSB Summer Challenge. June and July involved unexpected travel, illness, and quitting a job. I know what's going to happen next but I haven't had time to write it down. It's going to be my birthday present to myself to finish up the thing within the next two weeks so bear with me! I promise it'll be worth the wait!
> 
>  **Edit:** It is what it is. My apologies.
> 
> This is a companion piece to my earlier prompt fill, [_Wrong in All the Right Ways_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3740008).


End file.
